


Back to Baker Street

by maryagrawatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 19:11:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5882263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maryagrawatson/pseuds/maryagrawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A possible interlude between the resolution of the Moriarty resurrection and the start of series 4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back to Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

> Interesting how The Abominable Bride turned a WIP into a complete story. I really thought this was going to be another one of my WIPs I would never publish, but with a few tweaks here and there and TAB giving me context, a gentler Mycroft, and an ending, behold a story.

"Strip and change."

 

The moment is here. Sherlock vividly remembers his first time in this room, having to bend over and cough, probing fingers at his rectum. He had barely kept it together then and he knows he won't be able to do so here. His breath is coming quickly and he knows he's going to panic. He wants Mycroft. He hears a whimper that couldn't have possibly come from him, only it has.

 

Through the roar of blood in his ears, he vaguely hears the guard, but does not understand the words. He knows he's not complying, that he's getting off on a bad foot, but he can't help it. He feels pain and realises that he's fallen to his knees on the hard floor.

 

There is a face in front of him, the lips moving. He focuses on it, tries to slow his breathing. The rush of blood eases and he can start to focus on the words.

 

"We just need you to change your clothes. Nothing else."

 

Panting, Sherlock looks up, trying to grasp what the guard is saying.

 

"We don't need to touch you, but we do need to be here while you do it."

 

Still on his knees, Sherlock nods to show he understood. It takes him a moment to collect himself, then he plucks at the sides of his jumper, trying to grasp them with trembling fingers. It takes a moment, but he finally grasps it firmly and tugs it over his head. His tee-shirt comes with it. He puts his hands to the floor and pushes up. It takes two tries before he can stand. He fumbles with the fly to to his trousers, but manages after a moment and pushes them down to his ankles and steps out. He's shaking badly when he puts his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, takes a deep breath, and pulling them down, taking off his socks at the same time. He quickly pulls on the oversized prison-issued tee-shirt and jumper to cover his modesty and then tugs on the trousers. They hang loosely, secured only by the boney ridge of his pelvic cradle. There are no socks, so he shoves his feet into the flip-flops. They fit, at least.

 

"Good," the guard says. "Now, I need to secure you. Handcuffs first, hands in front." Sherlock nods to show he understands and holds out his shaky hands. The guard quickly snaps the cuffs on. "Now, leg irons." Sherlock flinches when he feels the touch on his ankle, but manages to keep still. "All right, come with me." The guard stands at Sherlock's side, but does not touch him. He leads him through the door, turns left, and goes down a long corridor lined with doors.

 

The guard finally stops at a door that is exactly like all the others around it and opens it. "Step in and I'll remove the leg irons." Sherlock obeys, shuddering at the contact. "All right. I'm going to shut the door and then you put your hands through the slot for me to remove the cuffs." Again, Sherlock does as he is told. "Someone will be by with a tray for your supper in a couple of hours. The lights will go out at 2130 and come back on at 0600. Breakfast will be at 0700. You're under video surveillance, so if you need anything, just wave at the camera. It's in that corner. The toilet is almost a blind spot, though. You'll get a shower in a couple of days. Do you want tea or coffee in the morning?"

The question is so absurd and unexpected that Sherlock can only stammer out, "T- -- tea."

"Fine." The slot slams shut.

 

Left alone, Sherlock turns to survey the cell. It is much larger than the one he stayed in after the shooting, obviously meant for long-term. It's tiled in blinding white with an unpainted cement floor. There's a cot on one side with a bookcase above, with books on it. Across from the cot is a toilet and there is a sink at the very back. There's no table or desk, but there is an exercise bicycle.

 

Utterly spent, he falls onto the bunk, pulls himself up into a tight ball against the corner of the cell, and weeps.

 

He has no idea how much time has passed when he hears steps outside his door and the slot opening. "Dinner!" a guard calls. "I'll be back for your tray in an hour." Sherlock gets up and takes the tray, setting it on the edge of his bed. He washes his face at the sink before examining his meal, avoiding his reflection in the mirror.

 

The dinner main is revolting, some sort of fish casserole. He chokes down a few bites and gives up. He really has no appetite, but he forces himself to have the bread and fruit cup, washing it all down with milk. He feels steadier with the food leveling out his blood sugar, but he's exhausted. He sits on his bunk until he can return the tray and then he crawls fully dressed under the covers, not even taking the time to clean his teeth with the toothbrush provided to him.

 

It's still dark when he wakes up, disoriented. He finds his way to the toilet by banging his shin against it. He's just feeling around for the toilet paper he vaguely remembers seeing the night before when the lights come on, momentarily blinding him. At least he can find the paper now. He wipes and then washes his hands and face at the sink. He has a look at himself in the mirror and wishes he hadn't, the skeleton peering back at him looking so wretched and pathetic. Feeling a headache coming on, he drinks thirstily from the tap, hoping that rehydration will stave off the pain, and then cleans his teeth.

 

He has an hour or so until breakfast and has no idea how to pass the time. He knows better than to enter his mind palace after what happened the last time — too many demons there. There are books, so perhaps they’ll do. He has a look at what's on the shelf and sees that they are just a random selection of mass market novels, nothing tailored for him. He pulls down a spy novel and decides to try it since he rather enjoys the James Bond movies John has forced him to sit through.

 

He almost gives up after the first page, but he keeps going and soon the pages are turning on their own. So this is why people read this drivel, he realises. It's an escape, not unlike going to his mind palace — but likely safer in this case. He's so engrossed in the story that he actually startles when his breakfast tray is pushed through the slot.

 

Breakfast is slightly more appetizing than dinner the night before. The plain porridge is still hot (and like wallpaper paste), but the toast spread with butter and strawberry jam is cold. There's a surprisingly decent cup of tea, too, a container of milk, and four orange segments. He is able to eat all of it, hungrily even. He saves the tea to savour while continuing his book. To his surprise, the morning passes and it's time for lunch. He's ordered to put through his breakfast tray first.

 

He's actually hungry by this time and lunch isn't too bad, a soggy ham and cheese sandwich with too much mayonnaise, a handful of crisps, and a bowl of chicken broth with a few noodles in it, as well as milk and a fruit cup.

 

He exercises after lunch. He thinks a bicycle is a stupid piece of equipment because his crotch area is going to be sore, but he knows he needs to move. He works up a sweat and then washes at the sink. Then, he reads some more.

 

His internal clock is starting to work again and he estimates that it's just past six when dinner comes. It's gloppy macaroni and cheese with mealy tomatoes on the side.

 ***

Sherlock has been in the cell exactly forty-eight hours when the slot in the door opens in the mid-afternoon. It's not time for a meal. He bolts up, ready to obey an order.

"Inmate, hands through the slot," a guard orders. Sherlock does as ordered and handcuffs are secured around his wrists. "Stand back and face the door." Sherlock obeys. The guard unlocks and opens the door. He's holding a pair of leg irons. "Don't move." The guard bends down and secures them around Sherlock's ankles as he stands still. "All right, come with me." The guard grips Sherlock's elbow tightly and leads him out of the room to the left, away from the exit. There isn't much give to the leg irons and Sherlock struggles to keep up with the guard's long strides. He stumbles and would have fallen were it not for the guard's hold.

"I'm sorry," he says quickly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry." The guard looks him in the eye, surprise evident on his face, and Sherlock quickly looks away, trying to project submission. He wants this to go easily. He doesn't want to make trouble, not when he's going to be here for the rest of his life. They're still not moving. Sherlock hunches his shoulders. "I'm sorry," he says again.

"Easy now," the guard finally says in a gentle tone. "It was my fault for going too fast. You're okay. Come on." Sherlock takes a small step, then another. The guard allows him to set the pace.

 

They reach the end of the corridor and make a right, then a left, then another right. The facility is like a maze, one grey hall with countless unmarked doors after another. They finally reach a door that looks like that of his cell and the guard pushes it open. "Reverse procedures. Step in and stand still while I remove the leg irons, then I'll close the door and you put your hands through for the handcuffs." Sherlock nods to show he's understood. The guard opens the door and Sherlock steps through, turning around quickly as the door is shut behind him. "You have fifteen minutes," the guard tells him once he's removed the handcuffs. The room is under video surveillance."

 

Sherlock hears the guard step away and only then does he turn around to see what this is all about. He's standing in a white tiled room not unlike his cell, only much narrower. There's a bench to his left. On it is a fresh set of clothes, a bar of soap, a safety razor, a flannel, and a towel. Ahead of him is a plastic shower curtain. He pulls it back to find a shower. It has a single tap. He opens it and let's it run for a moment. The water doesn't get hot, but it's certainly warm enough to be comfortable. He strips down and steps under the spray.

 

It only takes five minutes to wash and shave. He spends another five just enjoying the water. He finally steps out, dries off, and dresses in the clean clothing. His internal clock is working well and he's just pulled the tee-shirt over his head when he hears footsteps in the hall. He stands by the door and puts out his wrists when instructed. When the door opens, it's the same guard as before. "I bet that feels better," he says once the leg irons are on.

"Yes, sir. What do I do with my dirty clothes, sir?"

"Just leave everything there."

 

Sherlock keeps his head down as he shuffles back to his cell, chains clanking. His skin is tingling, a most pleasant sensation. A shower every two or three days is certainly better than nothing and his first privilege. Maybe he'll even be allowed yard time in a few weeks. They reach the cell and Sherlock steps inside. The guard bends down and removes the ankle chains. "Stupid procedure," he mutters. "You could knock me out while I'm doing it." The casual tone surprises Sherlock and he has no idea how to respond, so he says nothing. "The leg irons are only for the first few movements. Show us that you know how to behave and they won't be necessary."

"Yes, sir," Sherlock replies meekly.

 

The guard shuts and locks the door and then directs Sherlock to put his hands through the slot. When he does, the guard puts something in his right hand. His fist closes around it and he is surprised by his deduction. He brings his hands in as soon as they are free and confirms that he's holding a Mars bar.

"Thank you," he says more softly than he intended. The guard knocks to show he heard.

 

Sherlock goes to his bunk and pulls himself up into a ball in the corner. He examines the chocolate bar in its wrapper for some time, then finally peels it open and takes a nibble. It sticks to his teeth and is quite possibly the most delicious thing he has ever tasted. He thinks of saving it for later, but can't resist another bite, and another, taking his time between each of them and leaving just a bit for after dinner.

 

Dinner comes a few hours later, some sort of brown stew with green goo on the side. There are two slices of white bread this time, though, spread thickly with margarine, as well as the usual fruit cup. He manages to choke down almost half of the main, then washes away the taste with the lukewarm milk. The bread is fresh, if flavourless, and the fruit cup is delicious. He finishes with the rest of the chocolate and almost feels sated. He makes sure to put the chocolate wrapper on his tray. He has no idea what sort of weapon or escape device could be made from a Mars bar wrapper, but surely someone has thought of it and he wants this piece of contraband out his cell before someone asks for it. He sets the tray at the end of his cot and settles himself in the corner, knees drawn up to hold his book.

*** 

He's been there a full week when a guard comes to fetch him mid-afternoon. He had a shower the day before before, his second since arriving, so Sherlock is curious about this change in the routine. Perhaps he's being allowed outside, but the guard does not tell him to put on his jumper. He puts out his hands for the handcuffs and then stands in the position he's determined is the easiest and least threatening for the guard to attach his leg irons, but they do not materialise. Another privilege earned.

 

He's taken down the hall in the direction opposite to the showers and brought into a small room with a bench, a counter, and a mirror. No, not a mirror, a glass partition. A visiting room perhaps? His heart thumps with anticipation and he tamps down his excitement. Anticipation leads to disappointment. The guard has him sit at the counter and then loops a chain secured to the counter around the handcuff chains, tethering him in place. "You have twenty minutes," the guard tells him. For what?

 

He doesn't have to wait long. A door on the other side of the partition opens and Mycroft steps in. Sherlock has never been happier in his life to see his big brother. Mycroft gives him a tentative smile as he sits. There is a place in the glass to speak through and Mycroft leans towards it. "I'm sorry, I don't know anything more than you do. I am completely in the dark on this."

"I'm just happy to see you," Sherlock says.

"I am so sorry, Sherlock. Whatever you've done, this beyond what you deserve. I was certain that you resolving the Moriarty issue and your stint in rehab would earn you your freedom. Now, this, and they’ve even taken the mission in Eastern Europe off the table. It makes no sense to me. I’m sorry,” he says again.

Sherlock shrugs. "My life stopped being my own when I pulled the trigger."

Mycroft sighs. ”Are you managing all right? You don't seem to be sleeping well."

"Still in the adjustment period, but it’s better than the last time. I’m all right. The guards are kind."

"I've made it clear that keeping you like this long-term is not acceptable. Extended solitary confinement is cruel and unusual punishment and I won't stand for it. I am fighting for you, Sherlock, I promise."

Sherlock nods. "I'm fine for now. The guards talk to me when they bring me things. I'd really like some music, though."

"I'll see what I can do about getting you an iPod Shuffle. They are not keen on you having privileges, as they call them." He shakes his head.

"You can only do what you can, Mycroft. You're not to blame for any of this."

"Hmm. I do have something for right now, sort of."

"Oh?"

 

Mycroft reaches into a pocket inside his jacket and pulls out something that he holds up to the glass. It is a photograph of Scottie. "Can you see it?"

"Yes. She has a tooth! Thank you for bringing it."

"Mary and John send their best. I'm working on getting them visitation rights as well. The Crown is being unusually difficult about visitations as well."

"I'm not a usual prisoner."

"I suppose not. They have allowed me to bring you some books, so there is that. There should be a box of them in your cell when you get back. They're just going through them first."

"Thank you. I'm actually able to concentrate enough to read. I've managed to read three books since I got here. I’m staying out of my mind palace.”

"That's all right then. But you're not eating well?"

"I'm doing what I can. The food is usually not appetizing. I feel sick after eating it."

Mycroft frowns. "I'm going to bring that up. At your weight, you shouldn't be struggling to eat. Do you have any appetite?"

“Sometimes. I always have the milk, bread, and fruit. And it's not all bad. Breakfast tends to be okay."

"All right. I'll see what I can do."

 

They make small talk for the remainder of the visit. When Sherlock's internal alarm clock tells him the twenty minutes are up, he braces himself for the door to open, which it does within thirty seconds. He thanks his brother again for the visit and is escorted back to his cell. He finds a pile of books on his bed and his mood lifts just a little. He scans them and among the eclectic mix are Ian Fleming Bond novels, a treatise on apiculture, a theory on the decline of the Mayan empire, and a chemistry textbook. There's also a book of logic problems that looks interesting, but he wishes he had a pen to make notes in the margins. He's about to curl up with this tome when he notices something on the wall below the bookshelf. It's a copy of the new picture of Scottie smiling as she shows off her first tooth. It's held to the wall with a piece of sellotape, obviously put up by whomever brought him the books. He knows there's something off about being so grateful for such a small gesture, but in this strange new half-life of his, being grateful for anything is a miracle and he lets a peaceful calm wash over him.

 

The dinner tray comes on schedule and he gets up to fetch it. The guard speaks. "We've decided to give you a pen to go with your book of problems. Don't make us regret it."

It takes Sherlock a moment to understand what the guard is saying. "Oh! No, no.I could toss the pen into the hall at lights out?"

"That won't be necessary. Just remember it's a privilege."

"Yes, sir."

 

Sherlock makes a concerted effort over the next few days to finish his entire meal trays to show that he is trying to keep himself healthy. He works out on the bicycle and does situps and pushups to increase his appetite.

 

Five days after Mycroft's visit, Sherlock returns from the shower to find a blue iPod Nano, earbuds, and wall charger resting on his bed. He’s surprised that it’s a Nano because it has a display screen and is more like a little computer than the basic Shuffle would have been. He taps through the icons and discovers the iPod is loaded not only with his favourite music, but also photographs, video messages from his friends, and movies. He's so overwhelmed that he can only clutch the precious gift to his chest and weep. He spends the rest of the afternoon watching the video greetings over and over again. His favourite is the one of Scottie waving and giggling at the camera.

 

His supper tray comes and he gets up to fetch it. He speaks through the slot. "Can you please tell whomever approved the iPod and especially its content just how very grateful I am?"

"You earned it."

"Well, I don't expect anything. Thank you."

"I'll pass it on."

 

Supper is a piece of surprisingly edible lasagna with the usual sides. For the first time, he has no difficulty eating everything on his tray. When he's done, he puts on a James Bond movie, then goes to sleep listening to Vivaldi. It has quite possibly been the best day since the whole Magnussen business began nearly two years before.

 

Mycroft visits the next day. "You look better," he says.

Sherlock nods. "The iPod... There are no words..."

"I know!" Mycroft exclaims. "I requested a simple music player with classical songs on it and they came back with the specifications about the Nano and that you could have videos and such. I have no idea what they're playing at."

"I'm behaving myself," Sherlock says quietly.

"Oh, brother mine, I have no doubt about that," Mycroft says sadly. "I miss you so very much."

Sherlock understands what Mycroft means. "I miss myself old self too, sometimes. I don't like this, being afraid and submissive all the time. But sometimes the only way to survive is to surrender. I've decided I want to live, whatever life means for me now."

Mycroft sighs and puts his hand up to the partition. "You are the bravest and strongest man I've ever known, Sherlock."

Sherlock bites his lower lip. "Tell mummy and dad that I say hi."

"I will. They're in America. They bought a house in a place called Arkansas, wherever that is. I don't believe they'll be returning to England to live full-time. America is better suited to their passtimes.

"Promise me you'll go visit them as often as you can."

"I will."

 

***

 

Another week passes. He's still not been allowed outside, but the cell is spacious enough to dance somewhat. He can do three pirouettes or one jeté if he starts at the back wall and goes to the door, and the tight space helps him improve his form. The small bit of extra exercise helps him sleep better, although it does nothing to make the food more palatable.

 

Visitation day comes around again, even though he chastises himself for thinking of it as that because anticipation is truly not a good emotion when one has no control over one's life. But midafternoon, he's escorted to the visitors' room like the two weeks prior. He hopes that Mycroft will see that he is well. But it's not Mycroft who enters the room.

 

"John!"

His best friend grins. "Hey. Wow, you look better than Mycroft said you would."

"Every day is easier. It's so good to see you. How are Mary and Scottie?"

"Lovely. We've decided to have Mary stay home with Scottie full-time. I got a job at an A&E. More stress and longer hours, but it's really good. Mary likes being home."

"That's wonderful."

"How are you getting on?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I can stand it now, not like wasn’t able to stand it before."

"Right."

"I'll be an expert on James Bond by the time I get out of here."

John laughs. "Mycroft and I had a fight about that. He didn't think you'd want to waste space on the iPod for pop culture nonsense."

"Well, he was wrong."

"Good. Scottie has another tooth!"

"How is that going for her?"

"Lots of drooling and gumming, but she's been good about it."

"I have that picture of her showing off her first one. It's up in my cell."

"Really? Mycroft said that he put a copy with the books that first week, but never heard anything else after."

"Someone sellotaped it to my wall."

 

***

 

On day twenty-six, Sherlock is exercising mid-morning when he hears heavy steps stop outside his cell. He hurries to the door, feeling a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. The slot opens.

"Inmate?"

"Here, sir."

"Got something for you. Having a retirement party and there were leftovers." A paper plate is pushed through the slot. It holds a generous slice of chocolate cake and a scoop of slightly melted vanilla ice cream. Sherlock's stomach grumbles at the sight of it.

"T- -- thank you!"

"You like coffee?"

"Yes, sir."

"Got a cup here for you. What do you like in it?"

"Two sugars, please."

"Put the plate down and I'll pass you the cup." Sherlock sets the plate of cake on the end of his cot. The guard passes through a covered styrofoam cup and two sachets of sugar.

Sherlock grasps the cup like the precious gift it is. "Thank you very much."

"Wish you were all this compliant. Would make it easier for everyone. Enjoy."

"I will. Thank you again. S- -- sir?"

"Yes?"

"Will I be allowed to go outside soon?"

There's a long pause. "Soon." Well, that's an answer.

 

Sherlock sits on his bed and carefully pries open the lid to the coffee. It smells wonderful, better than he would have expected for prison coffee. He adds the sugar and stirs with the cake spoon, then takes a sip. So delicious. Maybe he'll be bold and ask to have his morning tea switched to coffee for a few weeks.

 

***

 

Four days later should be visitation day, but no one comes to let Sherlock out of his cell. He cries bitterly, disappointed with himself for having looked forward to the visit and being so excited to tell his brother about the cake. He really is pathetic. And he is certain that it is punishment for his audacity at asking about going outside. At least they let him keep the iPod.

 

The next day, he is deep into a book when he hears the lock turn on the door to his cell. This has never happened before, but he has been told what to do in that event. He drops to his knees at the end of the cot, forehead pressed into the mattress, hands behind his back ready for handcuffs. He starts to shake. This does not bode well. Perhaps this is a contraband search, in which case there's no reason to be afraid. Or perhaps they are checking that his room is tidy. He thinks it's all right, but he knows that even a wrinkle in the bedding, inevitable when he spends all his time on the cot, could be a sufficient excuse to take away one of his few privileges.

 

The door opens and he hears someone step in. Not a guard, the footwear isn't heavy enough.

 

"You can get up, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock startles at the sound of his brother's voice. He looks up and turns around, confusion evident on his face. They have only been allowed to visit behind glass. This is highly irregular. A knot tightens in his gut even as he is grateful that the Crown has permitted this small favour of being told his fate by his brother with nothing between them. Afraid as he is to hear the news, he is relieved. This limbo is going to end. It has been a full month since his arrival and he is ready to settle into some semblance of an enduring routine.

 

"Mycroft?" he asks after a long moment of silence.

"I'm told you're still eating poorly."

"Have you seen the slop they feed us?"

Mycroft huffs, a ghost of a smile on his lips, and nods. "How would Mrs. Hudson's chicken pot pie sound? Good enough to eat a proper meal?"

"Don't toy with me, Mycroft." Sherlock is humiliated by the tone of that. He had meant for it to be snarky and biting, but he instead sounds pathetic.

"I'm not. You're being released."

"What?"

"You. Are. Being. Released. The Crown feels that you have paid your debt to society and that they have succeeded in appearing stern enough."

 

Sherlock takes a step back, his calf striking the edge of the cot, and he sinks down heavily onto it. "W- -- when can I leave?"

"Right now." Mycroft bends down to pick up something on the ground by the door. It's a small cardboard box. "Pack up your things. Your friends are waiting for you at home for dinner."

"Home? I'm going home?"

 

Seeing that Sherlock will need a moment to process the news, Mycroft starts on the packing.

 

"How -- how long have you known?"

"Just a few hours, time enough to prepare your homecoming while they finished up the paperwork. I got a call that said that you had completed your sentence and I could pick you at my leisure. And this after I spent almost two hours on the phone yesterday going back between idiots who wouldn't tell me why my visitation rights had been revoked."

 

"I'm going back to Baker Street?"

 

Mycroft drops a pair of trousers into the box and turns to his brother. Sherlock is still sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out in shock. Mycroft crouches in front of him and grasps his forearms. "Sherlock, look at me." Sherlock does. "It's over. It's all over." Sherlock lets out a sigh that is almost a sob. Mycroft tightens his grip slightly. "Home, Sherlock. Let's go." Sherlock swallows and nods. Mycroft releases him and turns back to the packing. Sherlock gets up and reaches for his books on the shelf above the bed, the photo of Scottie, and his toiletry bag by the sink. The only thing left is his jumper. He shrugs it on and does the zip up partway, then puts the iPod in its pocket. He takes the box from Mycroft and hugs it to his chest, then follows him out of the room and down the grey corridor.

 

They pause at the exit to sign paperwork. Sherlock's hand shakes so badly that his messy signature is fully illegible. Mycroft lays a hand gently on the small of his back as they step outside to where there is a car waiting. Sherlock barely takes a moment to inhale the first fresh air he's had in weeks. The sun is not present to welcome him back to freedom, however.

 

It isn't until the car is well past the gates that Sherlock let's out a deep breath. Sitting next to him, Mycroft keeps his gaze firmly ahead while his right hand searches for his brother's left one and grips it tightly. They do not speaking during the hour-long drive to Baker Street, Sherlock staring out the window looking for familiar landmarks.

 

Finally, the car pulls up in front of Speedy's cafe.

"Who's upstairs?" Sherlock asks.

"Mrs. Hudson, Mary, John, Molly, and Greg."

"You'll come up, too."

"It's all right. I --"

"You'll come up, too," Sherlock repeats forcefully.

"Of course."

 

They step out of the car and Mycroft hands Sherlock the keys to the flat. Sherlock examines them as Mycroft takes the box out of the boot. "Get the door, Sherlock, this is heavy," Mycroft says with more humour than impatience in his tone. Sherlock slips the key into the lock and finds that it turns easily. He opens the door and steps in. The entrance to 221 Baker smells as it always has, of Mrs. Hudson's lavender cleanser with a whiff of her herbal soothers behind that. He takes the stairs slowly, listening to the creak of each one. Mycroft stays well behind.

 

When Sherlock reaches the first floor landing, he finds the door to the kitchen closed, but the one to the lounge is open. He can hear conversation inside. He takes the few steps to the door and sees Greg, but it is Mary who notices Sherlock first. She falls silent and all gazes in the room turn to the door. Mrs. Hudson sighs and is the first one to come Sherlock. He accepts a hug and then embraces Mary, Greg, and John in turn. It's a special occasion, after all. They are all giving him a once over, but he doesn't feel self-conscious. He's gotten used to the shapeless jogging costume and short hair. Mrs. Hudson breaks the ice, "Come and sit, darling."

"Actually, if -- if you all don't mind, I'd like a quick shower and a change of clothes."

"Of course," Mrs. Hudson replies. "Would you like me to draw you a bath?

He shakes his head. "I'll take one later. I'll be right back."

"I washed some clothes for you. It's all on the bed for you to sort through."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

 

Sherlock makes his way down the hall to his bedroom. Mrs. Hudson has aired it out and put clean sheets on the bed. He resists the urge to lie down and test his mattress. He has a look through the neatly folded clothes on the bed and selects an outfit, then steps into the en suite bathroom. It, too, has been cleaned to a polished shine for him. There are new containers of his favourite toiletries on the shelf above the toilet, a toothbrush still in the wrapper by the sink. Fluffy towels are hanging by the tub. Such luxuries and so much evidence of how much he is loved and cared for. How could he have never noticed it before, much less appreciated it?

 

He returns to the lounge fifteen minutes later dressed in what had passed for casual clothes for him, stiff dark jeans and a soft white button down shirt, not a bespoke one that he would wear with a suit, with the sleeves rolled up. The clothes hang on him, but don't look too badly. He's also traded his flip-flops for his most worn and comfortable loafers. It is good to have the smell of the prison washed from his skin, to replace the stench of industrial detergent with the scent of Mrs. Hudson's favourite washing powder.

"What would you like to drink?" Mary asks him after he's settled in his chair.

"A small glass of wine, please." He's always been indifferent to wine, but right now, it sounds infinitely appealing, a taste of the normal free world. Mary pours and hands him a glass filled with liquid rubies. He takes a sip, reclines, and lets out a contented sigh.

Mrs. Hudson passes him a plate. "Just nibbles, dear, until dinner."

 

Sherlock takes the plate and gives her a grateful smile before picking up a sausage roll, dipping it in ketchup, and taking a small bite. He's suddenly hungry and with that morsel, he feels like the dull ache in his gut might finally be allowed to subside. He can sense everyone trying not to stare at him as he puts down the half eaten sausage roll and picks up a crisp. He pops it in his mouth and crunches down. Salt and vinegar, his favourite. He has another, swallows, and then decides to try to break this awkward silence. "Who's minding Scottie?"

"Janine," Mary replies.

"How is she? Janine, I mean?"

Mary gives John a glance and he smiles. "She's well. She asks about you."

"Tell her I said hi."

"We will."

"So Molly and Greg, I see congratulations are in order." Greg responds with a grin, Molly with a bashful smile. They take hands. "About time."

"Sometimes things that are staring you in the face aren't that obvious," Greg says.

"I am very happy for you both."

"Thanks, Sherlock," Molly says, her eyes flashing with joy.

 

They continue to catch up while Mrs. Hudson seeks Mycroft's attention. They slip downstairs to deal with dinner. "Oh, that smells good," Sherlock says a few minutes later when Mycroft comes back up holding a steaming casserole dish, Mrs. Hudson following behind with a bowl of salad. Mary gets up to help and starts slicing a loaf of her chive and cheese bread that Sherlock loves. Molly and Greg set out plates and cutlery while John works on beverages. Sherlock is ordered to remain in his chair. Mycroft brings him a plate. Mindful that his brother hasn't eaten well in weeks, the portion is moderate. Sherlock waits until everyone is sitting with their own food before digging in. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson," he sighs after his first bite.

She chuckles. "I'm glad you still like it, dear."

 

There's a trifle after and then chocolates. Sherlock is full to bursting, but not uncomfortably so, just enough to make him drowsy. He lets out a yawn and Mrs. Hudson having declined help on the washing up, John and Mary take that as their cue to leave, Molly and Greg not far behind. Before he leaves, Mycroft points to a large bubble envelope on the mantle. "There's a new mobile phone in there, as well as debit and credit cards, and some cash."

 

When everyone's gone but Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock gets up to help her with the washing up. She tries to shoo him away, but he confesses that he's not quite ready to be alone. She washes and he dries in companiable silence. Then, she draws him a bath before heading downstairs.

 

Some time later, drowsy from the food and bath, but too keyed up to sleep, Sherlock lies in bed staring at the ceiling.

 

This inbetween period is finally over. He hadn’t come home after the Fall, not really. But now, it’s over. The shadow of Moriarty is gone for good. He spares a thought for Magnussen and realises that he will not be crippled by guilt for his actions. They were necessary. John and Greg and Mrs. Hudson and Mary are safe now. And so is the little one, his namesake. He has so much to teach her.

 

Just as sleep overtakes him, he makes a mental note to update his website tomorrow. Back in business. The game is on.


End file.
